


to bloom alongside you

by headlong



Series: even my own heart [1]
Category: Ensemble Stars! (Video Game)
Genre: Character Study, Love Confessions, M/M, Relationship Study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-11-04 01:42:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17889188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/headlong/pseuds/headlong
Summary: Wataru's comfortable in his equilibrium with Eichi. They might have a strange, too-intense friendship, and there might be a million things they aren't talking about, but he's happy.Right up until Eichi confesses.





	to bloom alongside you

**i. desert mirage**

There’s a note waiting for Wataru in his dressing room after the opening night of the theatre club’s latest performance. Flushed with exertion and still high on the adrenaline – they’d earned a standing ovation and done no less than  _ three _ curtain calls, and he’d even seen his co-stars grinning at him before they’d caught themselves – it takes him a minute or two to notice. But once he does see it, the crisp white envelope on the table by the mirror,  _ Hibiki Wataru _ inked on the front in perfect, yet familiar penmanship, he can’t manage to look away.

He picks it up, turns it over. It’s sealed with wax, but it comes unstuck under his eager fingers, and then the card inside slips out.

_ I would be honoured if the star of tonight’s show would join me for a late dinner. I’ll be waiting by the eastern gate, should you choose to accept. -- Tenshouin Eichi _

Of course it’s from Eichi, and of course it’s an invitation, and of course there’s no question about his own answer. That’s one of the things Wataru likes best about him: he could have just texted, or raised it in person beforehand, but leaving a note backstage has such  _ style. _ Idly, he wonders how exactly his friend managed to plant it, but quickly abandons his speculation. The appeal of any trick lies in not knowing how it’s done, after all.

Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, he’d have said yes. Have already been racing to their rendezvous point, while trying to make it seem like he wasn’t. But tonight, something makes him hesitate.

Half the school most likely thinks they’re already dating – that Eichi had seduced him into joining fine, or that it had happened as a result of their new proximity. They certainly spend a lot of time around each other, even for friends in the same unit, and they certainly speak with the intimacy of lovers.

But the truth is, they’re just friends. Granted, it’s an exceptionally loaded friendship, where equilibrium means pushing against each other, speeding ahead and expecting the other to catch up. Where spending time together could mean an afternoon poring over homework, or lunch in the student council room, or working on fine’s business, or just talking over tea. But it always means flirting. Showering compliments on each other, innocent touches, all perfectly choreographed. It’s a bigger thrill than any stage, and it’s addictive. But, of course, there’s a problem.

Wataru  _ wants _ Eichi. Wants him fiercely, relentlessly, and that shows no sign of abating. He’s never wanted to learn someone’s secrets so badly, to spend every second together when they’re apart, to be warmed by their presence until he forgets how the cold feels, to narrow the distance between them to an eternal zero. And less poetically, but just as honestly: he’s never been so enthralled by the shape of someone else’s mouth.

And the issue isn’t about Eichi not wanting him back. Because Eichi most certainly wants him, too; he’s always leaning towards Wataru, or seeking out his opinion, or idly touching him. There’s a grain of truth in every rumour, and their behaviour is an entire motherlode. So, really, it should all line up. There shouldn’t be a problem, except that there is – 

He absolutely cannot let himself have Tenshouin Eichi. Not now, and not ever.

Oh, there’s a thousand reasons why not. The bloody history of the war, and Eichi’s role in wounding his friends, in ways that still haven’t healed; Eichi’s role in hurting Wataru himself, and the ugly truth that part of Wataru hates the idea of being someone who’d cosy up to him after all that. The fact they’re graduating in just a few short months, and the fact there’s no guarantee they’ll be together afterward. The concept of dealing with an even more jealous, overprotective Hasumi Keito than usual. The fact Eichi is dying.

But, to be honest: mostly because the very idea terrifies him.

Objectively, he’s done far scarier things. He does far scarier things all the time, in fact, whether that’s going on stage in front of an audience of thousands, or practicing death-defying stunts. In comparison, Eichi should be nothing. Even with the muscle he’s built from idol training, he still looks like a strong breeze could knock him over, especially in the winter.

The catch is that Wataru cares. He cares so, so much about Eichi, and Eichi liking him, and that’s premised entirely on Wataru never saying anything real about himself.

Eichi likes Wataru for his talent. Eichi likes Wataru because he makes him laugh. And Eichi absolutely would  _ not _ like the Wataru that’s left without those things, who’s scared and tired and uncomfortably seventeen.

And yet, for all his back and forth with himself, for all his inner turmoil, for every good reason he has to declare a retreat tonight, his answer has been clear from the start. Because as much as he fears where following Eichi might lead, Wataru likes him so much more.

He changes into casual clothes, says his goodbyes to the cast and crew, dodges the question when he’s asked how he plans to get home. Tells them he expects great things tomorrow, for their second and final performance, and sees himself out.

It’s pleasantly chilly outside, and the fresh air sobers him up immediately. So Wataru decides to take the long, winding way across campus, as much to enjoy the atmosphere as to put off his inevitable arrival. Yumenosaki is always different when it’s deserted; on a winter night, soundless except for his footsteps, it feels like another world altogether. It feels like a liminal space, like an endless forest, like time has ceased to exist within these boundaries. No beginning, no end. Like he could keep walking and never make any headway, as the cold slices deeper into him and his visibility gets worse and worse, until he’s caught by the place’s magic and wastes away to nothing. And then the next hapless traveller who winds up here will stumble across his remains, bones polished as white as snow. Not that it’s snowing now, but there’s a bite to the air, and campus feels much darker for it.

In practice, though, he reaches the gate all too quickly. The gate; and reality; and Eichi, the mirage at the end of it all.

He’s leaning against a pale car, dyed blue under the streetlights. The colours make him look like something out of an old film, if film could capture the reality of someone like Tenshouin Eichi, and Wataru pauses to admire him. He’s dressed warmly, in a thick white coat, paired with scarf and gloves; despite his pale complexion, white has always been his colour. But when the wind picks up, he curls into himself, shoulders hunched and chin tucked against his chest. He looks much, much smaller that way, like something left out in the snow and dying of cold. How long has Wataru kept him waiting with his selfishness tonight? There’s no shortage of people who’d get on his case if Eichi ends up getting sick – and, more importantly, Wataru would never forgive himself.

But he can’t let his concern outweigh his desire to make a flashy entrance. It’s the least that’s expected of him, so Wataru concentrates, makes himself disappear –

And reappears at Eichi’s side, like he’s always been there. “Good evening, Your Majesty. I hope you haven’t been waiting on your lowly fool’s account.”

Eichi startles, but manages to recover quickly. “Good evening, Wataru. How exactly do you  _ do _ that?”

“I, like any performer, have a policy of never revealing my secrets! As well you know. For if I were to tell you, then my captive audience would be liable to take their eyes off me.”

“I know I’ve said as much before, but I’m not opposed to repeating myself on this. I can’t imagine any scenario where I’d look away from you.”

Wataru tips his head back against the car window, gazes up at the stars. He manages to pick out Orion, follows the hunter’s body down to Rigel, finds the rest of the Winter Hexagon from there: Sirius, the brightest star in the sky. Procyon, Pollux. Capella, Aldebaran, back to Rigel, and then back to Eichi. It’s still not nearly, nearly enough time to compose himself.

“There are no certainties in love and theatre.”

“Well,” says Eichi, “which is this to you?”

It’s unusually blunt, from him, especially since it’s a prelude to a much longer conversation that isn’t suited to these conditions. In the cold and the silence, their breath spills out like clouds.

“Do you remember what I said to you,” Wataru begins, choosing his words carefully, “before my dreamfes against the old fine, in second year? This most certainly began as theatre, Your Majesty, and you as scriptwriter, director, and lead. With you playing the hero, the new light of Yumenosaki, and we Oddballs cast as the villains. And just because the curtain may have fallen doesn’t mean reality has set in to replace it. Instead, we’ve traded roles and begun the second act – no, a new piece altogether. Theatre whirls ever on, regardless of its performers, at once fleeting and eternal. That’s part of its magnificence.”

Eichi seems to take a moment to process that, but then his expression resolves into a frown. “Wataru,” he says, “I’ve never heard you use so many words to give such a non-answer. Have you been taking lessons from Keito?”

“As if your dear right-hand man would ever allow me so close. Did you know, the last time I saw him, he threatened to have me banned from the student council room? The nerve, as if I could be stopped by something as mundane as a vice-presidential edict…!”

“I… no, I shouldn't have brought him up. This isn’t at all the conversation I planned to be having. Your constant defiance of my expectations is one of my favourite things about you, but tonight I was hoping to be straightforward.” He steps away from the door, jabs his chin at the car. “Shall we continue inside? It’s too cold to linger here.”

Every instinct of Wataru’s is telling him to  _ run_: that once he’s in a car with Eichi, at his conversational mercy, he’ll have no escape routes that don’t involve exiting a moving vehicle at high speed. And he seems much more serious than usual, tonight, so there’s no telling what he might want to speak about. But, like so many other things about their current relationship, it’s already a foregone conclusion.

“Let us away, then.”

The car is warm, but not stiflingly so; the heater’s clearly been left running. Wataru sits first, and Eichi moves next to him, angles himself inwards. There’s more than enough space for them to sit across from each other, but something about that seems terribly lonely.

They pull away from the curb without a word, the driver already aware of their destination, and the engine almost silent. Eichi takes the chance to strip off his scarf, then his gloves. They’re both a soft lavender, not at all his usual colour, and Wataru can’t help but snatch them up. The thought of trying on the gloves is too much, the phantom warmth of Eichi’s hands altogether too intimate, so he places them back on the seat. But the scarf, the  _ scarf_, looks like it was made for him, light and floaty and almost the same colour as his eyes, and it’s right there. So he drapes it around his neck, and drapes himself across the seat.

“Well? What do you think? I await your verdict with bated breath, my Emperor.”

“It suits you.” Eichi’s gaze is impossibly fond as he reaches over to adjust it, frees a few strands of Wataru’s hair. “Then again, I think just about anything would. I know I’ve said it before, but you’re a pleasure to design for.”

“Oh, but only because you have such a magnificent eye for it. You know exactly what shapes and colours flatter me.”

“I’m always studying you, after all. Incidentally, I enjoyed tonight’s play tremendously – you were a sight to behold. You always are, of course, but there was something particularly captivating about this performance.”

“May I ask what, exactly, caught your eye about it? Any serious actor must devour the words of his critics, and use them to enrich himself.”

“Hmm. Now that I think about it properly, I can’t quite put my finger on it. How frustrating… I think it was just your bearing as a whole, and the confidence with which you moved, but I can’t be certain.”

“Well, please do let me know if you manage to capture it. I could only dream of receiving an analysis of my performance from an aesthete like yourself.”

“I will.” Eichi shifts position a little, turning to look at him more fully, and Wataru’s completely ensnared. “To be honest, though, there’s been something bothering me lately. I was hoping to consult you about it, if it won’t be too much of a burden.”

“A personal issue?”

“Ah – yes, I suppose. Your opinions are very different from my own, but they’re always thought-provoking, and I trust you.”

“Well, by all means, have at me. Your most humble servant will listen, and can only endeavour to do his best.”

“All right, then. Do you think people…” Eichi seems uncharacteristically lost for words, but strikes valiantly on. “Do you think people are born with the capacity to be loved? I mean, is it something innate, or does it have to be learned?”

“If this lowly jester can be permitted to offer an opinion –”

“Wataru, there's nobody else here.”

He’d offer some kind of quip, but Eichi keeps  _ looking _ at him. And Eichi’s always looking at him, but usually Wataru isn’t quite so pressed to perform, especially to such a high standard. There’s a lot riding on his answer, so he can only present the honest truth. Or, at least, a truth that’s as honest as he can muster.

“Then I think it must be natural. Do not all humans turn towards love, as sunflowers do the sun? Striving for it blindly, magnificently, even when no light can be seen? Because while we may not all hunger for it equally, or face in the same direction, not one among us can survive without that tender sustenance.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Why wouldn't I?”

Eichi’s expression twists into something almost lonely. It sits all wrong on his face, nothing like his usual calm, and Wataru feels immensely guilty for it. “Ah – it's nothing. Forgive me.”

“Have I said something to displease you, Your Majesty?”

“Well, you certainly have now. You know how I feel about that nickname.”

But that’s a deflection; he knows Eichi well enough to tell when he’s trying to dodge a point, and far more than well enough to tell when he’s genuinely unhappy. “If you take issue with my position in this case, I’d like you to at least be straightforward. If you cannot indulge your own whims, on this, then kindly indulge mine, and engage with me as if you mean it. That has always been one of your greatest appeals.”

“Then – if it’s natural to move towards love, is it also natural for that to be lost? Either for a time, or forever?”

“I would certainly imagine so. We all go through patches where no light can be seen, don’t we? Even to a dreamer such as I, it seems unrealistic to expect to live in an eternal sunshine.”

“Is that so? Well. Ever since the DDD,” he says, “something’s… changed in me. I don’t know how to explain it, but – in your words, I think I’ve learned to face the sun again. Even though I didn’t realise I’d ever turned away, or the depth to which I didn’t know how to love or be loved.”

“I think it was well before then,” Wataru says, and then his brain catches up to his mouth. It’s an uncharacteristic slip, coming from him, but he’s been thinking about this more and more lately himself. He manages to rally, though. “Did you not organise DDD, and stake fine’s position in the SS, because you wished for something to change in the first place?”

(As if it doesn’t go back far, far longer than that. To Wataru’s battle against the old fine, in their second year; to the moment Eichi had first realised there was still something he lacked; and to Aoba Tsumugi.)

“I suppose. I certainly learned from Trickstar that the most important qualification for an idol, even more than skill, is simply to be able to love. And that you can’t convey love to others without understanding it yourself.”

“It’s the same in theatre, of course. An actor performing grief, or joy, or passion, without having felt such a thing to such a depth, can only produce a paltry imitation. And, worse, it’s visible to his audience when he’s playing at something beyond his knowledge.” 

“I confess, I can never help but wonder what great passion informs your romantic soliloquies. Your speech during tonight’s play, in the second act, was especially convincing, and I feel like you’ve been improving overall. Has something blossomed for you, lately?”

“I’ve told you tonight already, haven’t I? Revealing such a thing would be tantamount to disgracing myself as an actor. It would be asking me to reveal my deepest, most personal secrets.”

“Then, by all means,” Eichi says, “keep your secrets close. But we’ve gotten distracted again, haven’t we.”

“I take no issue with that, so long as the Emperor for whom I dance finds it to be an amusing digression.”

“All your digressions are amusing. But please, just for a moment, let me speak.”

Wataru folds his hands in his lap, forces himself not to fidget. It’s ominous, especially if this is going where it seems to be going, but there’s no way out except through. So he makes himself nod.

“My point is, I’ve been… different, since our loss. I find myself full of tender feelings I didn’t even know I was capable of, and I can’t seem to contain them all. It unlocked something in me I still can’t even word, some kind of truth, except for this.” Eichi takes a breath, squares his shoulders. “Hibiki Wataru, I’m in love with you.”

Wataru feels the world slow to an impossible crawl around him, feels himself forget how to breathe. There’s absolutely no way he just heard that, none at all. Not because it’s unbelievable, in and of itself, but because it’s too reckless of Eichi to upset their comfortable equilibrium. Does he  _ want _ their friendship to fall apart – no, does he want to get hurt?

(Then again – he’s always been somebody who does whatever he wants. It’s one of Wataru’s favourite things about him, even though it never used to be.)

“Sorry?” he manages weakly.

“I said that I’m in love with you. And, since I’m already showing my hand at this point, I have been for months.”

It’s the cruelest, most exquisite irony: that here Eichi is, offering himself up, and it’s utterly impossible for Wataru to accept his feelings. Not because he doesn’t feel the same way, but because he does. Because it feels like looking down from atop a precipice, from which he can never return if he jumps; because Wataru is desirable from a distance, and only from a distance; because the only fate more miserable than never learning how Eichi’s body would feel against his own, would be to learn it and then have to forget it.

He makes himself draw in a breath, and then another. Then, steeling himself, he prepares to make the cut.

“And so?”

Eichi looks like he’s been slapped. For a moment, again, he’s the vulnerable, friendless boy who fought against Wataru in second year; not an emperor, not an untouchable idol, but someone his own age who still doesn’t expect to be loved. “What do you mean,  _ and so_?”

“And so, what would you have me do? I cannot return your feelings, Your Majesty.”

“Don’t call me that,” Eichi says. “Not now. Because if this is just your, your  _ nonsense _ about jesters and emperors again, and that’s the only thing keeping us from each other –”

Wataru makes himself breathe. He’s a brilliant actor, used to speaking lies, but this is the hardest role he’s ever had to play. Far, far better to ad-lib in front of a crowd of thousands, than to rattle off the script he’s made himself prepare for an audience of one. He’s sick to his stomach, but the show must always go on. “It isn’t. I really, truly, cannot reciprocate. For once, Hibiki Wataru is unable to be what you need of him.”

“Very well. I was certain you felt the same way, but I see now that I misread the signs.”

It would be so much easier if Eichi would look at him like an enemy. Instead, he just looks suspiciously like he’s about to cry, eyes shining in the low light.

“Shall we forgo dinner, in that case?”

“Let’s. I suddenly find that I’m not hungry at all.” He slides along the seat and raps on the screen separating them from the driver. “Take us to Wataru’s, please.”

They conduct the rest of the trip in silence, or close to. It’s a mercy that they’re not too far off from Wataru’s neighbourhood, but then again, maybe it isn’t; if the drive had lasted more than ten minutes, maybe the atmosphere would’ve thawed enough for the right words to have come to him. Maybe Eichi would’ve cast a single look in his direction instead of watching the scenery outside his window speed past. Maybe the ache in his chest would’ve started to fade. But, more likely, nothing would have changed.

Then – they’ve arrived. Usually Wataru would linger, unwilling to leave and cement their parting, but tonight both staying and going seem like equally unsavoury options. So he lets himself out, hovers awkwardly by the door. Eichi still doesn’t look at him.

“Will I see you tomorrow?” he tries.

“Yes,” Eichi says, “I suspect you will.”

It would feel much more like Wataru had just broken Eichi’s heart if the Tenshouin car, as snow-white as its occupant, had sped off into the distance. Instead, he watches as its taillights recede at the same measured pace. Red, and red, and then nothing, and he’s left shivering and miserable on an empty street.

And Wataru realises – stupidly, hopelessly – that he’s still wearing Eichi’s scarf.

*

**ii. endless forest**

Wataru sleeps badly, that night, and barely manages to drag himself to school the next day. Eichi’s the type to retreat and lick his wounds after a loss, and Wataru has no intention to seek him out, and only the certainty they won’t run into each other tips the scales.

Unfortunately, class is a complete waste of time. With finals looming, the material they cover is mostly revision, which hardly captures his attention. Academic classes are kind of moot, now that graduation is around the corner, and most of his classmates are thinking about their futures in the entertainment industry, or in other career tracks that don’t require a high-school diploma. So the atmosphere is terrible, and time slows to a complete crawl.

He vanishes as soon as the bell goes for lunch, grateful for the reprieve but not grateful for being at a loose end. He winds up spending break reorganising the theatre club’s props, even though he’d made his underclassmen do that just last week, mostly for something to do with himself. It’s not the best or most subtle hiding place, but he somehow manages to go undisturbed. But there’s nothing sparing him from practice after school, and Tori and Yuzuru won’t provide nearly enough of a social cushion. Oh, he could skip, if he wanted to; tonight is the second showing of their play, and it’s more than excuse enough to conserve his energy. But there’s no way Eichi won’t be attending, despite his condition and his certain heartbreak, so Wataru can’t let himself be outdone.

So, after class, he changes into his practice clothes and makes his way to fine’s usual room. The others are there already, of course; Eichi’s the type of person who assumes being punctual means arriving ten minutes early, and Yuzuru’s of a similar mind, and between their influences, Tori’s also started to pick up that attitude. Which makes Wataru, who never arrives on time if he can make a dramatic entrance, the odd one out even on a good day.

(The nice thing about being in a unit with three sticklers is that showing up on time  _ does _ count as being fashionably late. He really is terribly fond of them.)

Eichi’s the first to greet him, of course. Their eyes meet across the room, almost immediately, and the Emperor’s blue gaze is unreadable. “Good afternoon, Wataru.”

“Good afternoon,” he replies, and then settles for, “Your Majesty.”

It’s the wrong choice, of course, especially stripped of its usual flirtatious undertone. But he doesn’t deserve to use Eichi’s name so familiarly after hurting him. For all his jokes about playing the role of jester at the court of the student council, he’s certainly never felt more like a clown. In a particularly absurd tragicomedy, granted, the kind he especially likes, but it’s one thing to admire tragicomedy from afar and quite another to be one of its major players.

(The worst part is that Eichi doesn’t protest it.)

Practice is surprisingly normal, despite everything, and Eichi gives no sign at all that he’s just been rejected. He’s the same as ever, setting a schedule upfront and leading them through it. If anything, he seems to drive himself even harder than usual, executes his dance moves more sharply, lets his vocals soar more strongly. And that makes Wataru wonder if it was all a dream, the drive and the confession and the fact Eichi had been about two seconds from crying.

He has proof, if he wants it. Eichi’s scarf is tucked away at the bottom of his school bag, waiting to be returned to its owner, either in person or through a discreet delivery. But he can’t shake the strange, irrational fear that if he looks for it, it will have disappeared, as if it were never there at all.

They finish up at the usual time, although it feels like it’s over in a heartbeat – and the irony, that this is the only part of Wataru’s day that hasn’t dragged horribly, isn’t lost on him. After practice, things usually go one of two ways. Depending on how tired Tori is, he either hares off home with Yuzuru in tow, or sticks around to chat with Eichi about anything and everything. Today, though, in line with the rest of Wataru’s luck, Tori seems exhausted, and he bids Yuzuru to depart almost immediately. Which just leaves Wataru and Eichi, and all the things they’re going to end up talking about anyway.

So Wataru packs up his things and sets to tidying the practice room, trying to strike a balance between being too fast and too slow. As much as he wants to leave, he can’t be seen to be in a hurry; but, if he goes too slowly, that might read as an invitation to speak to him, which it certainly is not. But he keeps seeing his companion in his peripheral vision, and it makes him clumsy. Eichi’s sitting very, very still against one of the mirrored walls, legs stretched out in front of him, impossibly long against the wood.

“Wataru?”

His hands still, and he glances up from where he’s wiping uselessly at a scuff mark. Which technically isn’t his problem, but it reflects badly on fine to leave a practice room in worse condition than it was to begin with, and – all right, maybe part of him  _ is _ hoping to be spoken to. “Yes?”

Eichi tips his head back against the wall, baring the pale skin of his neck, and looks up at him. Either he’s even more handsome than usual today, or Wataru’s brain is addled from pining. “Sit with me? Only if it won’t be a problem, I mean.”

There’s something uniquely awful about seeing him so uncertain, as if at any moment, the world might collapse around him, leaving him trapped beneath the debris of his faux pas. The Emperor of Yumenosaki, forced onto the defensive by something as fickle as the human heart; somebody, somewhere, has to be laughing at this strange and unthinkable turn of events. But it certainly isn’t Wataru.

“You could never prove a burden to me,” he says honestly, and flops down next to his friend. Their knees brush, and he has to fight not to pull away, as if he’s been stung by the sudden contact; he needs his actions to match his words. “What service might I perform for you today?”

“No service at all. The truth is, Wataru,” he says, “I owe you an apology. It was… untoward… of me to push my feelings on you last night, especially after cornering you like that. You don’t need to forgive me, and I don’t expect you to, but I hope we can continue to get along – both as members of the same unit, and as friends.”

And here Wataru had thought  _ it’s not you, it’s me_, was a tired and played-out cliche, fit only for breakup scenes in tropey romantic comedies. But here he is, clearly and definitively the problem. And completely unable to explain why, especially when Eichi’s being as admirably straightforward as ever, and it makes something in him ache fiercely.

“There’s no need for you to humble yourself before me, oh Emperor. If anything, I should be the one apologising, for not being able to return your feelings.”

“That’s ludicrous. You can’t… not even you can control the way you feel about someone. Especially if that someone is a man.”

Wataru wets his lips, weighs up his options. Decides, at this point, he owes just a little of the truth, and it would be harmless to follow through. “Rest assured that isn’t a factor.”

“You know,” Eichi says, with a hint of his usual dark humour, “that doesn’t exactly make me feel better.”

“I suppose it wouldn’t.”

It goes uncomfortably quiet, and Wataru itches to be anywhere but here. Next to him, Eichi presses his cheek against the mirrored surface, regards him unblinkingly, those eyes skewering him twice over.

“We can consider this to be dealt with,” he blurts out. His fingers dig into his palms, but that doesn’t stop them from shaking. “You and I can leave this in the past now, if we so choose.”

“Yes, I think that might be best.”

It would be reasonable for Eichi to be angry, or upset. Instead, he just seems to… accept that things have turned out this way. Not like him, at all, to act so passively; and not at all like Wataru to have drawn out the least admirable part of him. It may have been inevitable that breaking their equilibrium would only make them both lose, but knowing it isn’t at all like being made to taste it, thick and acidic on his tongue.

“And we’re… all right?” Eichi continues, a little more hesitantly. “Or going to be? We can take some time apart, if that’s going to help –”

Panicking, he answers too quickly again. “I don’t need it. I don’t require anything of you, I mean. I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound fine.”

“I’m fine!” Wataru insists more loudly, and forces himself to disappear.

*

He acts the starring role in the theatre club’s play that night, again, and wins three curtain calls, again. There are no flaws in his performance; he’s too practised an actor to be thrown off by something as insignificant as his own emotions. And when he returns to an empty dressing room – well, that’s only to be expected.

*

Nothing changes.

More accurately: a week crawls by, and it moves at a snail’s pace except when Wataru allows himself to be with Eichi. Class continues to be a waste of time, his doves don’t want to play with him in the cold, and with their final show for the semester out of the way, even theatre club isn’t much of a distraction.

Actually, he spends most of the time expecting Keito to track him down, and tell him to fix his business before it spills over any more. But the inevitable lecture never comes, which is interesting, if worrying; has Eichi not told him, or has he been warned not to intercede? Wataru’s always been one of the fault lines in their relationship, he knows that, but it doesn’t usually show up this starkly.

But Eichi seems the same as ever, whenever Wataru sees him at practices, or bursts into student council meetings to annoy Tori. Or, more accurately, the same as he was at the start of their third year: perfect and untouchable, always smiling but never happy. Ridiculous, that Wataru seems to be the only one bothered by this outcome, especially when he hadn’t even been the one to confess. And unfair, frankly.

He has other friends, of course. It’s just that most of them, these days, would probably immediately ask why he isn’t lurking around the student council room, and that’s too exhausting to evade. Especially considering there’s no love lost between his Oddballs and Eichi, and he definitely doesn’t have the energy to get dragged into a dissection of every one of his crush’s flaws.

And oh, if Wataru thought his crush was bad  _ before_ –

Being close to Eichi had been hell on his feelings, in its own way, because they’d spent so much time together and flirting had been par for the course, but being distant might actually be worse. Because he misses Eichi, terribly. And every time they see each other, he seems a little more like the Emperor of Yumenosaki, and a little less like the person who’d made Wataru dare to think he could be happy again.

He can’t count the number of times he’s heard Eichi describe himself as a dream eater; someone who consumes the hopes of others, and grows stronger for it. But Wataru, having fed on the dream eater’s own desires, finds he has no taste for them himself.

*

The 2-B class representative, fiddling with a loose thread on his blazer, tells Wataru that Eichi asked after him this morning. That he’d been terribly sad to have missed him, and that he’ll be at the garden terrace, expecting him at his leisure. Behind his glasses, Aoba Tsumugi’s eyes give nothing away.

He weighs up his options. It’s true he doesn’t have to be at Eichi’s beck and call, and that he doesn’t especially  _ want _ to, but it’d reflect badly on the honour of the Oddballs if he were to go back on his word, not to mention his own. And, well, he wasn’t planning to go to class anyway.

Yumenosaki’s beautiful, in late autumn. Well, the campus is always beautiful, but it’s something else painted in reds and browns, the beginning of a chill in the air, and his shoes on the fallen leaves the only sound. His route to the garden terrace takes him past the central lawn, which he cuts across rather than circling around. Distantly, he can hear the murmur of conversation, drifting from an open window; a bird, not one of his, calling to its fellows. Time has begun to flow here again, no matter who it crushes under its wheels.

The garden terrace itself is somehow even quieter than the rest of campus, a world all its own. Wataru had just planned to scope out the area, work out possible angles of approach for his meeting later, then head off to do something more useful with himself. What he hadn’t expected was to find Eichi here so early, seated at one of the tables, a cup of tea untouched before him. He thinks for a moment about sneaking off, about pretending he saw nothing. But then Eichi glances up, and those impossibly clear eyes arrest him. Which leaves Wataru with no choice, so he slips into the chair opposite.

“And here I had thought our rendezvous was to be at lunchtime. I hadn’t thought to find the Emperor of Yumenosaki himself skipping class, and setting such an example for his peers.”

“I wasn’t planning on it. But I felt ill, so I thought fresh air might help, and here I am.” Eichi offers him a thin smile. “Good morning, Hibiki.”

“Good morning, Your Majesty. I hope I find you well today?”

“Ah – I appreciate it, but I don’t want to play at pleasantries with you.”

“And what, pray tell, strikes you as so playful about my greeting?”

“Just that I’m sure you can’t mean it. Because I’m quite certain you resent me,” Eichi says, “and I don’t blame you. It’s unfortunate, but deserved. So please, by all means, speak honestly with me. Not so I can try make amends, because I don’t think I can. But because it would probably be better for both of us to know where you stand.”

But, really, where to begin? How to sum up his losses, tally them against Eichi’s sins, and present the overall deficit of something which resists being put into numbers? He had earnestly, earnestly loved his fellow Oddballs – for which he owes everything and nothing to Eichi. Yes, it’s hardly contentious to say that Yumenosaki had needed a fresh start, but it remains to be seen if this is indeed it. And at the cost of Wataru? At the cost of Rei, Kanata, Shu, Natsume? Tomoe, Ran, Aoba? Frankly: was this worth it, at the cost of anyone at all?

His companion’s still waiting for an answer, eyes intently on him. Everything in Wataru’s life boils down to irony or absurdity, these days, and it’s strikingly apparent that his association with Eichi is going to end up being both. He isn’t in the habit of talking honestly when he can avoid it, but he can make this one exception.

“Do you think I’m going to forgive you?”

“No,” says Eichi, “I don’t. And I don’t expect you to grant me a second chance, either.”

“Then why did you call me here? What are you truly requesting of me?”

“I don’t know. The chance to speak to someone as an equal, I suppose.”

“Are we, indeed, equals?”

“No, you’re right, that was rude of me. Of course we aren’t.”

During his final live against fine, Wataru had accused Eichi of not having any friends. And, well, it definitely shows. He’s a stilted conversationalist, has no clear purpose in his interactions with people, and can’t seem to decide whether he thinks he’s equal or inferior to Wataru. Up close, in person, it’s mostly just… sad, how blatantly unfamiliar he is with living around others.

If that hadn’t been the case, maybe Wataru – no, Yumenosaki – would have reached another ending. Maybe they still can. And Hibiki Wataru is many things, but he tries not to be part of the problem.

“I don’t forgive you,” he says, “not now, and perhaps not ever, but you aren’t worth my hatred.”

And it’s true. He’s never been good at hatred to begin with, but now, on his own and all burned out, he’s even worse at it. And if he couldn’t find it in himself to hate Eichi as an enemy, even as fine indiscriminately rampaged through Yumenosaki before turning on themselves, how is he supposed to now?

Eichi squares his shoulders. But his gaze is brittle, as if he’s still keeping himself together by sheer force of will alone. “In that case, Hibiki, I’d like you to join my unit.”

“Ah, I understand – and to the victor go the spoils…! Do you intend to act under the name of fine, from hereon out, or under another?”

“I don’t know yet, and you aren’t the spoils of anything. More importantly, I’m under no illusion of having won you, or even that I ever will. But you and I, together we could make Yumenosaki shine again. All I’m asking is that you think about it.”

All things considered, Wataru thinks he’s earned the right to ask a question. Even if it’s cruel, or even if it’s honest. “And the former members of your unit?”

“What about them?”

“Forgive me the imprudence, my Emperor, but your previous unit was held together by three contracts and –” And one boy, desperately trying and failing to reach Eichi, but it won’t do to say that. Even here, there are lines he isn’t willing to cross. “And little else. How should I, as a prospective new recruit, act with confidence here, considering the precedent?”

“This is why I need you around. To keep me honest.” He brushes a lock of hair behind his ear, folds his hands on the table again, frowns at the contours of where they interlock. “No contracts, for a start. I don’t expect you to like me, but I’ve learned my lesson about trying to win loyalty through bureaucracy. But I suppose the real answer is, I don’t know. I don’t have anything to offer you, except that I know we could reach the top together, and that’s no consolation after what you’ve lost. But I still… I still want to ask you to stand beside me. I admire you, Hibiki, and even that is something I’ve ground into dust. It won’t mean anything at this point, either, but that’s the most honest wish I have left.”

Speech complete, Eichi reaches for his teacup. The liquid is a clear, strong red; something herbal, perhaps, and he downs it with the same expression. He looks like he would shatter at the slightest touch, like he might blow away with the winter wind, and all that would be left of him is the carnage in his wake. When he sets the cup down again, its shadow looms towards Wataru.

And Eichi’s been clear about what he wants, but Wataru doesn’t know. His wounds still feel fresh, the sting of gaining and then losing the Oddballs far too close to the surface. But there’s nothing to be gained from rejecting Eichi here, either, and inflicting a wound in turn. Wataru would never admit it, but these days he’s mostly just tired. And the prospect of continuing to drag each other down won’t change anything; won’t help either of them take back what they’ve lost, or help them start to heal. All he can do is take one tiny, sluggish step forward – and hope that the distant, lonely figure on the horizon will take one in turn.

“I can make no promises,” he says, “but I’ll begin to think on it,” and Eichi lights up like a star.

*

He rifles through his library of plays, flirts with the idea of putting on a one-man show. He’s in the mood for something tragic, and yet absurd, because that’s the only avenue left to him. Maybe he’ll be Othello and Desdemona both, muffling himself with a pillow; or maybe he’ll choose something Greek, play Medea, alternate between spurner and spurned until he can remember which he’s supposed to be.

But none of his ideas sit right, no matter how he tries to tweak or reshape them. Besides, any performance that springs from misery isn’t a performance he wants any part of. Theatre should move people for the better, even if the play itself is miserable, an earnest connection between performer and audience. And, because he can’t muster the sincerity for it, let alone the joy, he’s forced to shelve the idea again.

*

Wataru doesn’t like to practice his magic tricks at school. There’s too high a chance of interference, that he’ll be seen by an onlooker standing at the exact wrong angle, and then his mystique will vanish. Besides, as the years have gone by and he’s grown as a magician, he’s moved away from simple sleight of hand and towards tricks that are more showy and audacious. The type that need to be practiced in his studio at home because of their props, and not just the secrecy of the trade.

Today, though, he’s found himself longing for the familiarity of the basics. He’s on the rooftop during second period, playing with a deck of cards, letting them pass through his fingers with the ease of practice, losing himself in the motions. Sometimes he selects one, memorises it, loses it in the deck and then finds it again. Sometimes he conceals a card in his sleeve, produces it with a flick of the wrist. Once he even makes the entire deck disappear, and when it returns, every card has gone blank. Nearby, one of his doves watches with a curious eye, heedless of the chill in the air.

But it isn’t going as smoothly as it should be. The cold slows his hands, and his mind isn’t in the right place for it. He could’ve chosen a better location, or a better time, but a true performer should be able to work under any conditions.

He chooses a card again: five of clubs. Shuffles it back into the deck, draws the top card, finds it to be exactly what he’d expected. For a brief moment, he allows himself to be pleased.

Part of any magic trick, the part that’s least obvious, is coaxing the audience into a place where they want to be fooled. The best performers excel not only because of their skill at magic, but because of their ability to lull their spectators into that paradoxical desire, to at once long to know, and to long to be deceived. And Eichi must be the greatest magician at Yumenosaki – no, in the world, because of how easily he’d tricked Wataru into thinking they were both happy as they were. How he’d made Wataru, of all people, into an easy mark. Novel, to be the one deceived for once, but also more bitter than he could ever have imagined.

He thinks, for a moment, that he hears the door to the rooftop creak open. But when he snaps his head in that direction, searching for something that he isn’t even sure of, it’s just a trick of his mind.

*

Less than a week until finals. Almost a fortnight since Wataru’s seen Eichi outside of practice, or more than incidentally.

School’s finished for the day, although it’s meaningless because he skipped class, and he’s at another loose end. He could go home, but he doesn’t want to. His house is too quiet, too empty, and it leaves him exposed to his thoughts. Increasingly, he’s been finding he has nowhere to be lately; the banality of his home life aside, Yumenosaki’s lost the glow it used to have, when Eichi was there.

In the end, he winds up making his way to Natsume’s secret room. It can provide a pleasant distraction, it won’t cost him anything, and it’s warm and indoors. Most importantly, he’s fairly sure that only the other Oddballs know of it, and it seems a safe bet that none of them will be there today. Except maybe Natsume himself, but he’ll cross that bridge once he arrives at it.

A blast of heat hits him as soon as he opens the door. It’s always warm in here, because Natsume’s constantly brewing up one concoction or another, and the sensation is alien against his skin. But there’s no trace of the room’s inhabitant, so he lets the door swing shut behind him. But then he realises – too late, too late – that he isn’t actually alone: there’s someone hidden among a stack of books and papers, and a head pops up at his approach.

“Ah – Hibiki? What are you doing here?”

In hindsight, he should’ve at least considered the possibility of running into Aoba Tsumugi. Not just because he and Natsume are in the same unit, or because he’s prone to staying on campus until all hours of the night, but because of course he would. Because they’re a matched pair, now; Eichi’s clowns, who made fools of themselves by caring too deeply.

Wataru considers, for a moment, Tsumugi. He’s inoffensive as a classmate, an important comrade to Natsume, and not somebody Wataru sees much of otherwise. But the sticking point is his role in the old fine – as both its leader, and in relation to Eichi.

Over a year since fine’s defeat of the Oddballs and purge of Yumenosaki, and people still gossip about it. And one of the central topics remains what Eichi, scion of the Tenshouin family and the perfect idol, had seen in someone like Tsumugi. Someone with talent, granted, but fundamentally not on par with Eichi or Tomoe or Ran. Either as idols, or as people, and unexceptional in every way except for his devotion to others. But Wataru was close enough to the situation that he knows it had really been the other way around; Eichi hadn’t chosen Tsumugi, but Tsumugi had chosen Eichi.

Regardless, as little as he feels like dealing with anyone, it’s too late to run away.

“Does a magician need a reason to come and go as he pleases, especially in a locale such as this? Far more unusual to find you here, I should think, in a domain far beyond your purview. Unless you, too, possess some untapped magical talent…?”

“Oh, no, not at all. I came here to study, hoping I wouldn’t be disturbed. Finals are coming up soon, and someone like me needs to make more time to work than any normal person. So I tried the library, but it was full of people who had the same idea… and I know I’d only get distracted in the handicrafts room.” Tsumugi coughs. “And I don’t have  _ permission _ from Natsume to be here, exactly, but he knows I know about this place. So it seemed like my best option.”

A distinctly awkward silence falls. Wataru may not believe in the supernatural, but he’s more than a little superstitious, and the universe is clearly trying to tell him something by putting him in the same room as Tsumugi right now. But that doesn’t mean he’s going to take advantage of it, or to have the conversation he’s surely supposed to be having.

The sticking point is that just because Tsumugi’s in a different unit now doesn’t mean he’s over Eichi – and Wataru knows, firsthand, how completely impossible it is to get over him. He might as well try divert the flow of a river with a teaspoon, or stop the sun from rising in the east. Eichi has the same inevitability, the same gravity, and Wataru can’t escape from that pull no matter how desperately he beats his wings.

Not that he even really wants to.

“You look troubled,” Tsumugi says, breaking that train of thought. “Is there anything I can do? You’re my classmate, after all, not to mention someone important to Natsume… so I’d like to help, if I can.”

He weighs up his options, and goes for a safe middle ground. “Not unless you can turn back time, or heal a wound invisible to the eye, or decipher the intricacies of the human heart.”

“Um. So, please correct me if I’m wrong, but are you talking about love trouble? To be honest, dealing with that isn’t a strength of mine, but I can try. A magician can’t choose the kind of jobs he gets, but he can still choose to help.”

“You read me truly, my dear predecessor. And here I thought you had disavowed having any magical potential.”

“Well, I can’t look into the future, or perform sleight of hand, or even do much of anything. But I think reaching out to others is a kind of magic on its own… or that’s the guiding principle of our work as Switch, anyway.”

That’s.. strangely profound coming from Tsumugi, actually. Wataru’s trying to work out how to tell him as much, but his companion’s already moved on to rummaging through the piles in front of him.

“Maybe I could read your horoscope, if you’d like. They aren’t for everybody, but I find they provide direction when I’m uncertain, and help prepare me for what I’m going to face. When was your birthday again?”

“Late in February.“

“Ah… of course you’re a Pisces, Hibiki.” Tsumugi emerges, victorious, with a magazine in hand. “Here we are. They have both Western and Japanese ones here, but I like the ones with star signs better, because they feel more… magical, I suppose. Well, not that I’m a particularly good Leo myself. Do you have a preference?”

The elephant in the room is so large it’s a miracle either of them can still breathe. As if Wataru’s _ love trouble _ could be about anyone but Eichi, and as if Tsumugi isn’t sharp enough to have picked that up. And yet: this is already such an absurd, loaded situation that he might as well see it to the end. 

“I leave the decision in your hands. By all means, play on.”

“All right. Um, Pisces, Pisces… There’s only one line about your romantic outlook, I’m afraid. It says,  _ love might corner you from an unexpected direction this week_.” He lowers the paper. “Was that good enough? Natsume would have put on a voice or something, if he’d read it, so I probably should’ve tried to make it sound more mystical.  _ Watch out for love from an unexpected direction this Week,  _ maybe… no, that’s too much coming from me.”

As far as horoscopes go, it’s useless. Beyond useless, actually, and it makes Wataru feel like laughing. So much serendipity and buildup around their meeting here, and this is the best the universe can do?

“I’ll think on it,” he says instead. “But I should leave you to your study, for I meant not to intrude.  _ Bonne chance  _ on your exams, my classmate.”

“Well… if you insist.”

Tsumugi returns to his pile of schoolwork, and shuffles one notepad aside for another. That leaves Wataru free to wander, so he steps carefully around a series of runes drawn on the floor, towards a bench loaded high with chemicals and herbs and mysterious powders. He reaches towards an unlabelled container full of silvery dust, then thinks better of it. Even  _ he  _ doesn’t know what everything here does, and it makes him a little wary to explore. Natsume had been in the process of teaching him, last year – but, suffice to say, he hasn’t had a lesson in a long time.

Done with inspecting those, he moves on, heading clockwise towards the shelves. The room is full of books, and Wataru idly trails his fingers along their spines as he passes. Some of them have clearly been taken from the school library, still bearing their Yumenosaki reference numbers; others are in languages he can’t understand, a mix of English letters and unrecognisable ones; and a few are so old that their titles have been rubbed off their spines completely. They look like they’d fall apart under his hands, although that’s just as likely to be because of Wataru as because of their condition.

Then, with his exploration complete, he sits heavily on one of the chairs. There isn’t really anything for him to do, but he also doesn’t feel like leaving. He could read something, but he isn’t in the mood to investigate any of the strange tomes here, and the only book he has on him is the exchange diary he shares with Eichi, which he still hasn’t had the heart to take out. They’d traded it for the last time on the day of the confession, with the usual implicit promise that he wouldn’t read it until he got home, and he hasn’t looked at it since –

Hold on.

*

**iii. sunshine sentiment**

Wataru forces himself to review the facts, because he can’t quite believe they line up: Eichi had given him the diary on the day he’d confessed. Eichi had treated the confession like something premeditated. And Eichi had known Wataru wouldn’t read his message until after his confession. So, in that case… 

He almost drops his bag scrambling to retrieve the diary. When he fishes it out, his hands are shaking. Ridiculous, for an actor to have such little control over himself, especially during such a climactic moment, when everything rests on him alone. The latest entry, when he pages to it, is dated from the day before the confession. Individual words jump out at him –  _ graduation  _ and  _ happiness  _ and  _ Wataru, Wataru, Wataru_ – but he forces himself to slow down and read from the beginning.

_ Wataru. My most lovely, dearest Wataru – _

_ There are a lot of things I could write about, today. The banalities of what happened in class; my club activities, and the ginger tea my underclassmen and I tried together; the conversation I had with my parents after dinner, about graduation, and my future after Yumenosaki. The way you looked as you waited for me by the gates this morning, as if I were coming home rather than arriving at school. All small things, but by no means insignificant. I’ve been finding joy in even the most minor places, lately, and it keeps on surprising me. I don’t think I really understood what it meant – how it feels – to be happy until this year, or this month, or perhaps even this moment. I thought it would be grander, but it wasn’t at all. Instead, it was as if I had awoken one day, rolled over in bed, and found it already there with me, tangled among my sheets. That’s the irony of it, I suppose; the irony of my whole life, that I’ve never realised what I had until I stood to lose it. _

_ I can only hope that, by the time you read this, you’ll have already made me happier than I could ever have dreamed. _

Wataru stares uselessly at the final sentence. Stares long enough that the characters stop resolving themselves into words, and just look like meaningless lines. It’s obvious, now that he thinks about it, but this was never just about him. 

He’d been so busy shying back from the precipice that he hadn’t paused to consider Eichi’s role. What it meant for Eichi, sick and isolated and never knowing love, to try and seek out his own happiness – no, that isn’t correct. To seek out the place where his happiness and Wataru’s could overlap, intertwine, become one and the same.

He won’t let himself be another of Tenshouin Eichi’s losses. Especially for a reason as weak and selfish as his own fear.

And there’s hope, yet. So he slams the diary shut and stuffs it back into his bag, fingers brushing the lavender scarf he  _ still _ hasn’t returned, and Tsumugi’s head snaps up in response. Wataru had forgotten he had company, caught up in his own thoughts, and he doesn’t really care for the reminder. “Er, Hibiki? Are you sure everything’s alright?”

“Better than all right, oh blue bird, and thank you most kindly for asking. I am, in fact, fantastic! Wonderful! I might even find it in myself to say… Amazing!”

He hares off without even waiting for a response, up the stairs and out into the school proper. His bag thuds against his back with every stride, diary making contact with his spine through the fabric, but it’s a dull pain he welcomes. At this hour, the hallways are mostly empty, most of the students off at clubs or holed up cramming for finals. Which means nobody has to witness the odd sight of Wataru, already odd enough in and of himself, pelting across campus at full speed, hair flying out behind him.

There’s really only one place he can think to find Eichi. Tea club isn’t on today, and he isn’t usually prone to lingering in the 3-A classroom, so if he’s still on campus – and he  _ has _ to still be on campus, Wataru needs to believe that – he’ll be in the student council room.

He can see it in his head now: Eichi will be alone, taking solace in his solitude, pining sadly yet stoically about his lost chance, and then Wataru will make his dramatic entrance, and confess his love, and Eichi will swoon at the sudden reversal of his fortunes. Wait, no, he won’t swoon; Wataru would never have fallen for someone who couldn’t hold his own. Regardless, then Eichi will gladly accept, and then, united, they’ll share in a passionate embrace… 

“Eichi,” he cries, bursting through the door. “Eichi, are you around?”

Except the student council room is not, in fact, empty. Five pairs of eyes train themselves on him at once, and he freezes under the force of it: Keito’s unamused, Tori’s and Isara’s different kinds of shocked, Yuzuru’s carefully neutral, and Eichi’s –

“Wataru, is everything all right – hold on, did you  _ run  _ here?”

“I need to speak to you,” he wheezes. “In private.”

Keito adjusts his glasses, moves cleanly to intercept. “I’ll have to ask that you take your business elsewhere, Hibiki. This is an exceptionally busy time for the student council, and we’re all snowed under with paperwork.”

“Actually,” Isara cuts in, “I’m just about finished for today.”

A huge, yawning silence follows his words. It’s a gutsy move, for sure, with a thoroughly unclear motive, but Isara won’t meet Wataru’s eyes.

“Well,” Tori says huffily, “Saru… um, Isara might be done, but I’m still busy –  _ hey_!”

“What the young master means,” says Yuzuru, as if he hasn’t just nudged Tori under the table, “is that he and I will gladly adjourn to the library.”

“We absolutely will  _ not_.” Then he seems to pick up on the atmosphere, and his eyes widen. “Oh! Oh, all right. Well, just this once, because I’m feeling generous.”

“Then I suppose,” Keito says, with all the grace of a man having his teeth pulled, “that I can finish up at home, as well. Let’s call things here.”

Wataru’s not entirely sure what just happened, but he isn’t complaining, either. Around him, the members of the student council pack up in silence, and file out. Isara mouths  _ good luck _ as he passes, which Wataru chooses to ignore, but it’s not unwelcome to know that somebody’s on his side.

Keito’s the last to leave, because of course he is. He stops in front of Wataru and sizes him up, somehow looking even more sour than usual, frowning. When he speaks, it’s around his obvious displeasure. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Hibiki.”

“I can only hope so, too.”

He makes an unimpressed noise, but he still goes. And then it’s just Eichi and Wataru, Wataru and Eichi, who seems to be having a hard time deciding whether to be amused or worried.

“At least I know I’ll be leaving the student council in capable hands,” he says at last. “Isara’s quite something, isn’t he? Not that I had expected any less of him.”

“Time and time again, the members of Trickstar prove themselves to be formidable foes, even off the battlefield.”

“Oh, I think he and I are on the same side, here. Anyway, what’s this about?” Eichi asks, and for a moment it’s as if nothing ever changed between them. As if he’s dealing with any of Wataru’s normal dramatic entrances, on any normal day, and not the prelude to… well, something he doesn’t quite know yet.

“I didn’t turn you down because I don’t like you,” Wataru says, cutting immediately to the chase. “I turned you down because I like you too much, because I like you so much, and it terrifies me.”

Eichi goes very, very quiet as he processes this. After what feels like a small eternity, he stands from behind his desk, crosses the room. He and Wataru are of a height, but that usually doesn’t feel so strangely threatening. This close, he looks like someone made of ice, but only someone who doesn’t know him would make that mistake. Not when he’s always so warm, so ardent, and when Wataru never wants to stop melting into him.

“Then I didn’t misread things?” he says carefully. One of his hands comes up, momentarily, but then he seems to will himself not to touch, and his arm falls back to his side. “You really… you want this? With me?”

“Please, let me finish. I need to get everything off my chest, Eichi, or I won’t ever. I can’t tolerate seeing you the way you used to be, because I know it isn’t who you are any longer. If you were still that same lonely Emperor, I’d never have fallen for you at all. Because you’re not my liege, when it comes down to it, or anything even close, but… my sun, I suppose. Because lately, I can’t stop thinking about you. Not just how I hurt you by spurning your feelings, but – but you in general. How I want to stare at you until you blind me, and even beyond that, I want to keep turning towards your warmth.” Then, self-consciously, he adds, “I mean. Assuming you still want that.”

Eichi laughs. Genuinely, freely, and it does something ridiculous to his heart. “That was quite a speech. Of course I do, Wataru, and if my feelings were so shallow they would fade after a couple of weeks, I wouldn’t have confessed. I do have to correct you on one thing, though. If anything, we’ve been the other way around, at least in terms of suns and flowers. You must know how long I’ve looked up to you, and how long you’ve been my idol.”

“Well, we can’t both be each other’s suns. Celestially speaking, it’s quite impossible.”

“In that case, you were definitely mine first.”

He’s dizzy, lightheaded, brain spinning in one direction and the world spinning in the other. It feels a lot like he might be dying, but he can’t think of any way he’d prefer to go out than death by Tenshouin. “Let’s not quarrel, not today! If you and I feel the same about each other, what does it matter which of us was first to stake their claim? The very fact that our emotions have come to align is miraculous.”

“On that, we’re in agreement. So, since they do align, am I allowed to do something about that? Because, given the chance, I only plan to monopolise you even more.”

“You.” Wataru’s mouth is completely dry. He works his tongue against his lips, tries to ignore the way Eichi’s eyes dart down to meet it. “You wouldn’t want to. Not if you knew everything about me, and I’ve already proven I can’t be trusted.”

“Wataru,” says Eichi, “if you don’t stop being ridiculous, I’ll have to kiss you. You… you do want me to kiss you, don’t you?”

“Of course, but what exactly am I –”

Wataru’s not surprised to be cut off, but he’s most certainly surprised by the intensity of it. He’s kissed people before, of course; any leading actor would have, in one role or another, and he’s an exceptionally good leading actor. But no stage kiss could have prepared him for this, for Eichi, for the heat of him, the hunger, the devastatingly real way Eichi sighs into his mouth. How, when they part, Eichi gasps for breath against his lips, and Wataru drinks in his air.

“See,” he says. “Now you can stop being ridiculous about whether or not I want you.”

“On the contrary, Your Majesty. I think you’ve quite ensured that I never will.”

“You don’t think, if you’re to be my lover, that you could drop the title?”

_ Lover. _ It’s exactly the kind of overdramatic term Wataru would’ve used himself, but there’s a thrilling frankness about hearing it from someone else – no, from Eichi. It tears a breathy laugh from him, entirely unintentionally.

“It depends, of course. Are we, indeed, to be lovers?”

“Ah – I’m sorry. I’ve gone and overstepped again, haven’t I.” Eichi frowns. “I know I can’t promise you any kind of future. And I’ve made you deal with enough of my selfishness for a lifetime already, as a member of fine and as my friend, to ask you for something like that.”

“Eichi.” Hearing it from his own lips makes Wataru even giddier, so he says it again. “Eichi, but what am I to do if  _ you’re _ the one being ludicrous?”

“Perhaps you should scold me accordingly.”

So Wataru twines a hand into Eichi’s hair and kisses him again, because it’s easier than explaining that he likes Eichi’s selfishness; because, after all, that selfishness has served them well so far. It’s a little easier, this time, to stop his brain from completely short-circuiting. Not that Eichi isn’t still threatening to consume him, but Wataru’s fractionally more prepared for it.

“I was being entirely serious earlier, though,” he says, after they break apart, because he’s also not willing to let this go any further without saying his piece. No matter how hungrily Eichi stares at him, or how badly Wataru aches to kiss him again, and again, and again. “I’m not at all the person you believe me to be, and I’m entirely sure you’d have nothing to gain from associating with me more closely. That was why I had to turn you down, too.”

“Oh, come on. You don’t think I feel this strongly about you without knowing at least a little about the man beneath the mask?”

Wataru’s heart kicks up, rabbit-quick, and he has to fight the urge to make himself disappear. But Eichi’s worth forcing himself through this; or, at least, he has to believe so. “How did you find out?”

“Even you, Wataru, aren’t a perfect actor. You let tiny things slip all the time, and I’ve stored them up.”

“You see… this was exactly what I was afraid of. I’ve worked so hard to keep my flaws and insecurities buried, and to hear I’ve failed as both an actor as a person is… well, speaking honestly, it makes me miserable.”

“Far be it from me to dismiss your feelings, but please listen for a moment. I’m not a perfect person at all – most people would argue I’m the opposite, actually. You know I’m selfish, and I’m prone to being far too forward, and I’ve done terrible things, and I’m still learning how to live around others. But if you still want me, despite knowing all that, why wouldn’t I feel the same about you?”

“It’s different.”

“Why?”

“It… it just is.”

“I don’t accept that as an argument, you know.” Eichi tips his head. “Would it help if I were to point out you’re being ridiculous again, and try convince you otherwise?”

It hasn’t escaped Wataru’s notice that they’re still very, very close together. And talking is hard, but bodies are easy – well, not always, but they’d be easy with Eichi. Who knows, maybe someday all this persuasion will have accrued enough to work. “In that case, I suspect I’ll need a great deal of convincing, at considerable length.”

So Eichi laughs, and leans in to kiss him again.

*

**iv. blue salvia**

Things change. They go back to normal, more or less, except that they don’t.

Wataru passes finals with flying colours, thanks to both his natural talent and some last-minute cramming with Eichi. Being with him is still a little terrifying, but it’s usually in a good way. In a heart-racing, adrenaline-pumping, on-stage-in-front-of-thousands way, a way he didn’t think could be encapsulated in a single person. So Wataru finds himself, tentatively, happy.

But there’s still a little time before the winter holidays, and things aren’t slowing down, in terms of either their work as idols or their relationship. They’re both busy on Christmas, but Eichi’s managed to lock him into spending time together the next day. And while Wataru isn’t big on planning, because it just isn’t as fun as spontaneity, he’s trying to learn to make an exception.

Unit practice is still happening, too, and today is fine’s second last gathering before the break. They’ve split off into pairs for this practice: Wataru and Tori, Eichi and Yuzuru. Eichi had said something about learning to work with their least familiar unit-members, but it’s just as likely that he chose these configurations because he and Wataru would get absolutely nothing done together. That’s his prerogative as the leader of fine, even if it’s not a particularly fun one.

Still, Wataru likes Tori, and is more than happy to spend practice working with him. He’s developed so much as a performer in such a short time, honing his abundant natural talent. By the time he reaches his third year, grows into his status and his skill, he’ll be a force to be reckoned with. The least Wataru can do is set a punishing regimen to draw that out of him.

Tori’s better at enduring it, these days, but he still calls for a time-out around half an hour in. Which Wataru had expected; what he hadn’t, though, is for Tori to not flop on the ground in exhaustion, and instead turn a piercing gaze on him.

“Did you and the president make up?”

There’s no point in denying the rift, not to someone in the same unit who witnessed them tiptoeing around each other for weeks. “We did, and most gladly! I cannot begin to express the ecstasy I feel when I consider our tender reunion.”

“I thought you were never going to. Honestly, Long Hair, can’t you do anything right?”

“Very bold of you to assume it was I, Hibiki Wataru, who erred, and not His Royal Majesty! Even the mightiest of emperors can misstep every now and then, you know.”

“You’re being ridiculous, and you aren’t fooling me. Eichi is Eichi, and you’re… you.”

Tori’s obvious bias aside, he isn’t actually wrong. Eichi’s confession might have been ill-timed, and not planned nearly as well as it could’ve been, but most of this situation is on Wataru for reacting badly. Still, it’s one thing to admit that in the privacy of his head, and another to verbalise it to Eichi’s biggest fan.

“Assume whatever you would like, Princess…! But that sorry event is in the past, and now he and I are striding boldly toward our future together.”

“Hm… if you say so. But you’d better not do anything to hurt the president again, and this is the only warning you’re getting. If you do, I’ll – I’ll make my slave catch you and cut off all your hair! And then you won’t have anything going for you at all.”

He stares, caught between fondness and genuine confusion at this bizarrely unthreatening threat of violence – then, all at once, it clicks into place. “Ah, of course, my mistake! I suppose Eichi and I share custody of you now, don’t we?”

“I have my own parents, as you know. I just don’t trust you not to toy with his heart, that’s all.”

“I have absolutely no intention of hurting him,” Wataru says, entirely honestly. To pacify his companion, but also because, now that he speaks the words, he realises how true they are. “Please, rest assured that I cherish him at least as much as he cherishes me.”

“Well,” says Tori, “good! I wouldn’t allow you near him if you’d said any less.”

As if Tori, still in his first year, who’d come to Yumenosaki after the war had already ended, and who’d shown up in the third act of their story, at best – could keep the pair of them away from each other. Still, it’s nice of him to try. Wataru leans over and ruffles his hair.

“Ah, so adorable, Princess! Eichi’s lucky he has you around to protect him. If only I could have a cute, doting son like you… but I don’t think any of my underclassmen would agree.”

Tori ducks out of his reach, shows off his best glare, tries desperately to smooth down his fringe. “That’s because you’re a huge weirdo. And you’re not my dad, either!”

“Of course not. Don’t you think Eichi’s much more suited to the role, while I play his devoted wife?”

“You could stand to be way less gross. You’re a member of fine, not the president’s housewife, so you should act like it.”

“Housewife, hmm?” Wataru pretends to think. “Do you think he would like me better if I were to wear an apron?”

Tori scowls. “Ugh! I’ve had enough of this. We should get back to work – but remember what I said, okay? If you do anything to make Eichi sad, I’ll never forgive you!”

The rest of practice passes in a blur, even after the other two rejoin them, which Wataru’s uncharacteristically glad for. He has loose plans with Eichi after this, and that’s a far more exciting prospect. It isn’t anything grand, or particularly organised, but just making time to spend with each other. Like always, except that they’re  _ together  _ now, and the range of things they can do together has expanded significantly. 

The sun’s just starting to set as they head out, just like any other winter evening. Eichi’s wearing his lavender scarf again, the one Wataru unintentionally stole for weeks, and only managed to work up the guts to return after everything was resolved. Wataru, though, hasn’t made any concessions for the weather. He normally doesn’t get cold easily, but he hadn’t counted on the wind that seems to spring up from nowhere, and it makes him hunch miserably into himself.

“Are you warm enough?” Eichi asks, knocking his shoulder gently against Wataru’s. “You can speak up if you aren’t, you know.”

“I hope you weren’t thinking of lending me your jacket, my dear Emperor. You need protection from the elements far more than I.”

“All right, not my jacket, but perhaps my scarf? We already know it suits you.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Gloves, then.”

“And allow your fingers to freeze? That would be a most unconscionable act on my part. Why, I would rather meet an agonising death fifty times over than make you experience even a whit of discomfort on my account, ever again.”

Eichi stops, suddenly, and Wataru takes a moment to follow. “Then let’s share,” he says, perfectly seriously. “I’ll take the left glove, you can take the right, and we can hold hands to stay warm.”

“I… I’m opposed to something so deeply, fundamentally immodest!”

“You know, if you don’t want to –”

“It isn’t that!” Wataru sticks out his hand, studiously avoiding eye contact. “Have at me, Your Majesty. If it were done when ‘tis done, ‘twere well it were done quickly.”

“You would think I was trying to kill you.”

One of the lavender gloves lands in his palm, and Wataru slips it on. Eichi’s hands are slimmer than his, so his glove fits more snugly, pulls a little when he flexes his fingers. Not uncomfortably so, but snugly nevertheless. “In all honesty, I remain unconvinced that you aren’t.”

“You give me altogether too much credit. Well, you have a habit of doing that anyway, but rest assured I’m invested in your survival.”

“Perhaps it would befit my liege if his words were to match his deeds.”

“Stop deflecting and hold my hand, please.”

Touching Eichi’s skin is always so much more than he remembers it. Today, the feel of his hand is warm and slightly clammy. Eichi loops his fingers between Wataru’s, squeezes slightly, and Wataru fancies he can feel their heartbeats pulsing in time.

It’s strangely normal to walk along like this, holding hands. Seen from afar, they could be any two high schoolers, instead of some of the most formidable talents at Yumenosaki Academy, who fought a war and forged a truce and found each other. Strange, but not bad.

“How did practice with Tori go?”

“Swimmingly. Do you know, he seized the opportunity to warn me not to hurt you? As if I were some kind of homewrecker, out to ruin you and scatter your empire, rather than your most devoted consort.”

Eichi’s lips twitch. “Of course he did. And who are you planning to call in for a speech protecting  _ your  _ honour, Wataru? I’m sure you have more than enough friends who’d like to take a swing at me. Itsuki Shu, perhaps? Sakasaki Natsume?”

“Nobody,” he says, surprised by the finality in his own words. “I trust you.”

This shouldn’t come as news to Eichi, not after everything. Not after spending a year in the same unit; not after managing to develop a friendship, despite all the reasons they shouldn’t have been able to; not after the way they already talk to each other; not after letting Eichi kiss him in basically every alcove on the Yumenosaki grounds, plus the student council room, backstage before their last dreamfes, backstage after their last dreamfes, and theatre club headquarters; and certainly not after the implicit promise that, if things continue to escalate, he’ll absolutely wind up  _ going to bed with him_ –

The point is, there’s no reason a simple expression of trust should make Eichi do a double-take. Should make his hand loosen its grip on Wataru’s own.

“Even after everything?”

“ _Because _ of everything. Because I didn’t trust you when we met, but I trust you now.”

“I. Thank you. I think I needed to hear that, even if it was obvious.”

“It’s only the truth.”

“Anyway!” Eichi continues sharply, and Wataru’s more than willing to let that instant of mutual vulnerability slide. “I thought we could go on a date. There’s a restaurant nearby which recently received its third Michelin star, and I haven’t had the chance to visit yet. Besides, I still owe you dinner.”

“You certainly shouldn’t go to such a ludicrous extent for someone as humble as I.”

“It’s far, far too late for that. I plan to spare no expense in courting you, my Wataru.”

The possessive isn’t new, from either of them, but it still makes his cheeks flush. It has quite a different connotation now that he’s learned how Eichi’s tongue feels in his mouth, after all. But it’s still far too grandiose a plan, even for his grandiose tastes.

“I mean – if you go that far, how do you expect me to reciprocate within the same league? I don’t possess a fortune, and the least I can demand is for you to allow me to pull my own weight.”

“I don’t expect you to.”

“I  _ want _ to.”

“You’ve already done more for me than I could ever ask for.” Eichi swings their joined hands, offers a smile that’s almost shy. “I’m not used to this kind of happiness.”

“Well!” he blusters, suddenly feeling reticent himself. “I don’t know what you expect me to say to that, Your Majesty. For all my skill with words, I find myself suddenly struck dumb.”

A smile tugs at Eichi’s lips. “You know, I’ve wondered this before, but… are you actually weak to being spoiled?”

“The great Hibiki Wataru, despite any impressions you might be under,  _ has _ no weaknesses!”

“The great Hibiki Wataru shouldn’t make that sound like a challenge.”

“It’s hardly fair to hold a jester accountable for his emperor’s ambitions, regardless of how much he might encourage them.”

“Enough of that talk. You should call me  _ Eichi _ again.”

“Er. Is there a particular reason for this exact request, at this exact moment?”

Eichi fixes him with very, very blue eyes. “I just wanted to hear it, that’s all.”

Wataru looks away, tucks his face into his shoulder. He has to: it’s all too much. Far too late, it strikes him that he’s gotten himself involved with someone unbelievably dangerous. To think, all this time, Eichi had been the precipice itself, the dizzying free-fall rather than the crunch at the end. “But that would rob it of the element of surprise. I would much rather ambush you when you’re least expecting it, and steal both your breath and heart away. That’s the core principle of my  _ Amazing_, after all…!”

“And how do you plan to steal something you already have?”

“Well. Do I, in fact, have such a thing? It seems presumptuous – no, outright rude – of me to assume I possess something so meaningful.”

“I thought we’d established that my heart is the least you can ask from me.”

“On the contrary. I consider it the greatest treasure with which I’ve ever been entrusted, and I intend to guard it with everything at my disposal.”

“Ah… you’re wonderful, you know. I really won’t ever get bored of you.”

“For far more compelling reasons than tormenting me, I should hope.”

“I told you in the student council room, didn’t I? There’s no way I could ever tire of turning towards my sun.”

That doesn’t sit right with Wataru, though. And the more he thinks about it, the more the analogy breaks down. Even if they’re each other’s suns, it seems like a lonely kind of love, to be always seeking warmth but never be returning it. And that’s a love he wants no part in. Their happiness is supposed to be one and the same, isn’t it? He makes himself take a deep breath.

“But I don’t want to be your sun, Eichi. I want to bloom alongside you, now and forever.”

It’s a huge declaration, for a high schooler, and for someone he’s been dating for all of two weeks, but this isn’t just someone. It’s Eichi. Eichi, who Wataru’s seen at his absolute worst, and who he can only hope to someday see the absolute best of.

What he’d said, weeks ago, in the back of a Tenshouin family car, about becoming someone overflowing with a sudden passion, about re-learning to love and suddenly being confronted by an abundance of it – it has to be contagious. Because there’s no other explanation for the way he’s been feeling.

“Forever,” Eichi echoes. “Do you really mean that?”

“Ah. I must confess, I’m just falling back on my usual dramatics.” And then, because he’s trying to be a little more honest, he adds: “But… I’ll be here for as long as you want me.”

“I expect to want you for a very long time. Although this still doesn’t seem entirely real to me, thinking back on everything. Could you have predicted, at any point in our association, that we would end up like this?”

“I should hope, my most divine Emperor, that this feels nothing like an ending.”

“Well, it can’t be the beginning. We’re in agreement that it’s years too late for that.”

Wataru watches his companion carefully, glowing in the light of the sunset. “Then perhaps we should consider this part of an especially prolonged second act. What is forever, if not a middle without an ending?”

Or a summer without the threat of winter, or a deep breath that never has to be let go, or a flower pressed between the pages of a heavy book. Or an excuse to grow beside Eichi, into Eichi, to bloom and keep blooming together, in endless sunshine.

“Well,” Eichi says, “it seems to me there’s only one way to find out.”

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/headlonggirl). ♪


End file.
